Freedom of The Trapped Soul
by Kat Harrcolys
Summary: When the lights go out with a loud surge, she knows that her assumptions are right. Graphic Depictions of Violence in this Chapter!
1. Stipulations

**A/N: **I do not own The X-Files or Hannibal. This is an intro chapter, and is very short because I wanted to test the fandom waters. Please read and review! :D

**Freedom of The Trapped Soul: Stipulations**

"He's after you Scully, I can see it in his eyes," Mulder declared, pacing the expanse of her living room.

"I'm fine, Mulder."

"I won't let Hannibal hurt you again," he commanded, his hand banging on the dining room table.

"You shouldn't be here. You know that. Not so soon after he's left."

_"__You_ shouldn't be here. He's coming back for you, Scully. You need to leave." She sighs deeply at his words. She knew she should leave.

"I _can't _Mulder."

"Why the hell not?" He storms at her. He's so angry and she's happy that the room isn't bugged. They shouldn't see him like this, not with everything going on. He grabs her arms and pulls her close but she won't look at him. Her eyes are downcast. When he finally realizes there's something she isn't telling him, that this isn't about her pride, his eyes soften and his fingers rest under her chin, bringing her head up.

Her eyes are the same eyes he's loved for nearly 20 years, but everything else is different. The long blonde hair suits her, but it's so different. This regality in her clothing, her home and her essence are what he couldn't give her in all of their years together. She fits here. But this investigation, that she's held onto for nearly two years has damaged her. He will not lose her to work; not again. His eyes search hers for answers and when she looks at him, her eyes glisten with unshed tears.

"You didn't think your freedom came with stipulations, Mulder?"


	2. Restrictions

**A/N: I don't own X-Files or Hannibal. Thank you to everyone who has read this story! :)**

**Freedom of the Trapped Soul: Restriction**

"Scully?" his voice is a cracked whisper. He feels like he's been punched in the stomach then uppercut in the jaw. She can't look at him any longer. She kept this from him for too long, didn't want him to blame himself for another thing that went_ wrong._ So many things had seemed to go _wrong _in their lives, it just wasn't fair. But she can't protect him any longer- not when she's afraid to go to sleep at night.

"If I don't do this, Mulder, the charges return."

"Scu-"

"I won't have you on the run again," she shakes her head, breaking from his grasp. She doesn't tell him that this isn't about her, it's about keeping a watch on him. She doesn't tell him that they know he won't do anything while she's practically a working hostage. She can't. So she says what she can say. "They'll kill before you even have a chance this time. _Please,_" she intones, finally looking into his eyes again.

Her words are lost to him as he storms from her 'home.' "Don't wait up," she hears him sneer as the door slams shut. She shouldn't have kept it from him. How could she? How could she not when she knew he would do anything to _save_ her, even if it meant killing himself to prevent… …_this._ In both paths, she has lost Mulder. At least in this one, he is alive. She collapses into the sofa and holds her head in her hands.

* * *

><p>"Dana Scully," a voice booms from across the hospital wing.<p>

"Yes?" she turns on her heels, red hair spinning behind her. The man meets her halfway and hands her a folder. As her brow knots he only says a few words before walking away.

"I'm confident you'll make the right decision."

She was confident that the _real _FBI had no idea this "undercover" case was going on. Hell, she wasn't even sure if it was a case or simply a chance to "keep tabs" on her as well. She sighed and figured that they knew about the vaccine she was developing.

Despite her apprehensions on the validity on the claim that she was undercover because of a recent string of murders, Scully knew that there was something amiss in Baltimore-It wasn't just a murderer. Based on the killings, she knew it would be a difficult task, but that the killer _had _to boast in some way. He was a narcissist, and although there was a slim possibility of her finding the killer (not that they _actually _expected her to), it kept her in place and kept Mulder alive.

She didn't expect to find Hannibal Lecter, or better yet, for Hannibal Lecter to find her.

Scully would laugh at the irony of being back in the FBI after Mulder nearly begged her for years, if it didn't make her want to cry. "Come back," he said. "I need you on this case," he claimed. And this case. And this case. And this case. He needed his skeptic. Men waking up without their limbs in Ohio, Girls and boys vanishing for 5 years from Indiana and returning the same age as when they left. She wouldn't budge. She was stone.

She's sure this isn't what he imagined, when he whined that he needed her back. Dana Scully, once again FBI puppet. The Dana Scully of 15 years ago would have raged, fought back, beat the system. This Dana Scully was tired, deprived, and had too much at risk to make such silly gambles. The tiny print _"We know where he is"_ at the bottom of the file cemented her participation. Looking back, Scully assumes this recent case; this "capture the Queen" game is the result of the impending _date. _It was ,after all, late 2011. There wasn't much time left and his recent behavior had rocked the boat.

She told him not to release those files.

Scully would never tell him that he was to blame; he thought enough about that himself. Instead she blames herself, claims that this is punishment, a penance of sorts for depriving him of his son, giving her mother so much stress before she passed, giving up when she was specifically advised not to.

She's knows that there aren't microphones in her office, lest they catch the murderer but get caught without a warrant to listen to confidential recordings. Her phone however, she knows is bugged, and her office computer tapped, just in case she thinks they aren't watching and she tries to order any tickets online. As if the car tailing her to and from her office every morning wasn't enough indication of that. But her house…now that was a different story. If the Lone Gunman were still around, she sighs deeply at the thought, they would have already hacked the system and had the FBI watching reruns of Friends. But things were different now. They were waiting for the moment she attempted to jump ship. Like she _could._ Her only solace was the home that Mulder visited, never _lived _in. She personally looked through it once a week for bugs, more-so if Mulder came to visit a particular week. It was her place to lay, to sit and think about her life in as much peace as she was allowed. They would not take it.

She was a prisoner, stripped of everything, even her identity. No longer Dana Scully, she was Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier, colleague and _recently turned_ psychiatrist to Hannibal Lecter.

Her hair rose on the back of her neck and her skin crawled when she first met Dr. Hannibal Lecter, a subtle smile paste across her face. Charming, pleasant, organized- demonic. She could see it in his eyes, so similar to Donny Pfaster's and yet so different. His eyes were polished, elegant, his veil secured in place. But she could see him. He was a murderer. When he first schedules his appointment, citing that he needs a 'fellow colleague' to talk to, she knows:

He knows that she sees him.

The problem with hunting a monster is that you have to look into an abyss to find it. And sometimes, it finds you first.

"I _like _you, Dr. Du Maurier," he had said, rising from his high-back chair. He was across the small office in an instant, and she reached to her back for a holster and gun that she no longer possessed. "You have someone you want to_ protect_." His breath is hot on her face, and she suddenly wishes that the FBI gave a damn to truly bug her office. Hannibal's hand is tight around her wrist, twisting it. She grimaces. "It would behoove you to tread lightly." She is disgusted with herself when she lets out a sigh of relief when he releases her. In his chair was a neatly folded note from her book.

_"__Veil; no regard for human life," _it read in her looped, elegant handwriting. That paper was elegantly ripped from locked notebook in her desk- the desk at her _home._ Gooseflesh rose to cover her skin and she shuttered, her hands shaking as she composed herself enough to drive 'home.' He was going to kill her.

* * *

><p>She sits in her chair at 'home', her head pressed to her hands. Her palms press into her eye sockets to keep from crying. Mulder wasn't coming back. She waits until nearly 2 o'clock in the morning, and he still hasn't returned- the one thing to keep her sane, Gone. Mulder's words or warning, or protection, echo in her head. But he isn't here anymore and it could be too late once he returns.<p>

She picks up the envelope that arrived with Hannibal's visit to her residence earlier this evening. She remembers his smile, the way he eyed her and thanked her as if nothing had happened between them. She remembers Mulder shaking in anger, begging her to leave from this investigation, remembers it vividly though the very scene was nearly 14 hours previous.

Her hand holds Hannibal's referral request, brought to her in the same hands that twisted her wrist nearly a week prior. Jeremy Summers. Hannibal simply cannot handle him as a patient and he believes that psychotherapy from a woman's perspective for this particular client would be best.

Bedelia, as she is now, knows better than to refuse his request.

She heeds Mulder's warning. Dr. Hannibal Lecter _was _after her.

A Cobra is sliding itself around her neck and the only thing she can do is be still.

**A/N: How did you like this chapter? Where would you like to see this story go? Leave me a review!**


	3. Bindings

**A/N: Hope everyone had a happy holiday season and New Year's. _GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE _IN THIS CHAPTER. **

Freedom of The Trapped Soul: Bindings

Mulder doesn't return for nearly two weeks, and when he does, it's simply to grab a case file from her computer. He could have emailed her through a safe server. The fact that he decides to instead knock on the back door and slip inside without a word, silently climbing the stairs to where he knows she keeps her laptop hurts much more than she expected.

"Mulder," she questions, following him up the stairs. "Mulder, I was worried," he takes the stairs two at a time and her voice comes out as a huff because she's trying to at least stay on his heels. "You didn't call and-

"Seems like the lack of communication is mutual, Dana." She pauses at the top of the stairs as if she's been slapped.

"Mulder, I tried to tell you but," she's surprised by how quickly he turns around on his heels, his eyes furious. She'd hoped that their weeks apart would help him cool down. Instead, his anger has festered.

"Listen, I get it," he says with a tone that tells her that he most certainly does not get it. He jams his personal thumb-drive into the port of her Mac and quickly finds his file, downloading it and hastily removing it. If he looked closely around their shared bedroom he would notice that the covers are turned up on his side; that she'd been sleeping there for nearly a week. The ever observant Fox Mulder sees nothing. "This isn't only about me, Scully; you've given up."

"Mulder," she nearly screams, the sound surprising herself as well. She clamps her hand over her mouth, and closes her eyes tightly. She feels tears brimming on her lashes, but she will not let them overflow. She wishes she could give up. How she desires to just stop. But she can't. Her life is not in her control. Once upon a time she told Mulder that this was "her life." She's not sure this life has ever been hers. Scully takes two deep breathes, knowing that her next words will not be easy, that he may hate her for the rest of his life-not that his seething eyes don't indicate that already. She can't keep this from him too. She has to let him know the bigger picture.

"They know where William is, Mulder."

He brushes past her in a fury, nearly knocking her down with his heavy body. She catches herself on the bedside table, and turns to see that his eyes are on her as well. He hadn't meant to push her. But his concerned eyes are gone in an instant, replaced with seething anger. She doesn't follow him as he stomps down the stairs or slams her door so hard she's sure a picture frame fell after it.

There was no use in following him. He was disgusted with her; she was disgusted with herself. She wasn't of any use to him anymore- a pawn, just as he had always feared.

Padding the few steps across the carpeted floor, Scully climbs into her bed, pulling her laptop with her. She opens her latest project on stem cell research and types away at the meaningless words of her next journal article. The mind-numbing work will help her forget. But soon she'll have to leave the prison-like home and see her clients.

Scully visibly shivers, fear creeping up on her like the tide before a tsunami.

She didn't have the words to tell Mulder that she's seeing violent tendencies from her referred patient, Jeremy Thomas. That Hannibal Lector sent her an easily-triggered patient to test her. That she's terrified.

He wouldn't have listened, anyway.

Not that she could blame him.

* * *

><p>Fox Mulder is furious as he peels away from the residence of Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier. Not Dana Scully. The woman inside that house was not the Scully he knew. He feels sick to his stomach, his body alerting him to his blatant lies. The woman in that house, although blonde, was his fiery redhead.<p>

"I buried you, Mulder," he hears her words echoed in his head as she sobs, her voice cracking with each syllable.

"I gave him up; I gave up our son," he pulls over the car.

"You didn't think your freedom came with stipulations, Mulder?"

He's done so much to her, and she's fought alongside him. He knows he's truly not made at her, just at what he's made her become. She's their pawn, playing into their demands simply for his life, as if his life was worth her own.

But William's-

He can't think about how he's treated her, how he's rejected her for nearly 14 days for keeping a secret when he kept secrets their whole partnership. He knows that it isn't about trust, but that she knew he would run off immediately, guns ablaze, if he knew from the start. She knew he would be purposely reckless and probably lose his life for her if she'd let him. And that hurts.

Mainly because she was right.

What keeps him from running to fight now is that she's already in their clutches; he couldn't risk her life again. He ponders the word and thinks of his years playing video games with the gunman. She was in the "clutches of the enemy," Langley would say, pushing buttons at lightning speed. Frohike would chime in with a comment that would make Mulder slap the remaining hair off his head. "Don't know why you're complaining-It would be a pleasure to rescue the scrumptious Agent Scully."

It's Byers' voice that he finally hears, and he isn't talking about video games or clutches or scrumptiousness. "you were being an ass," he says, and Mulder swerves, his car nearly falling into a ditch on the side of the road. He turns in the seat to see the eyes of his decade-dead friend fixing his tie as if he had an interview shortly "She wants you alive."

"Not like us, man" Langley whispers, suddenly appearing in the back seat, shifting the black-framed glasses up his nose.

Frohike appears last and Mulder expects his friend to provide his comic relief. C'mon, say something about Scully being hot,he thinks, or about how I'm so whipped. Instead, his oldest friend looks into the mirror, meeting eyes with Mulder, his words solemn. "You know if the roles were reversed, you would have done the same thing for Agent Scully." He sighs deeply, knowing that they were right. He misses the Gunman holding him accountable, telling him when he was wrong, even when he knew it but refused to accept it.

Before they disappear into oblivion, Byers' last words are clear: "She's in danger, Mulder. She needs you."

She's already lost her identity. She's lost her freedom twice for him. He won't abandon her; he will not make her carry the world on her shoulders alone.

They would get through this; they would find a way out: together

* * *

><p>When Mulder returns to the world of the living, he curses loudly noticing the analogue clock. 4 o'clock? He'd been sitting on this road imagining the dead from his sick consciousness for 4 fucking hours? He looks down at his phone he notices that he has 4 missed calls, all from Scully.<p>

The first three come from her personal phone, one that she solely uses to take calls from him. It stays locked in her vanity when she leaves her home to practice. The last is from her office, which surprises him. She shouldn't be making personal calls on that phone, especially to him.

"Mulder, I know you're angry, but please," she pauses "please call me."

He should call her right now, but the next, newer message begins to play.

"Mulder it's me. There's a patient and I need your help."

A patient? How could he help, he's never technically practiced. His brain puts together the pieces. Profiling. He can't help but recognize the quiver in her voice when she said the word 'patient.' She was afraid. Dammit! He knew she needed to tell him something before he stormed off. The phone is pressed to his ear as he speeds down the highway. The last voicemail plays.

"He just left and I'm scared, Mulder," she's whispering into the phone. Her voice sounds so little he's terrified himself. "He's exhibiting symptoms of-"

The phone line goes dead.

"Fuck," Mulder shouts, pushing his size 13 foot on the gas. He tried to make himself believe that he was simply exaggerating. Scully was a trained federal agent. She could take care of herself. She had cameras monitoring her every move. There was a panic button in her office.

He feels pinprick tears in his eyes and brushes them away. She needed his help and he'd pushed her away.

She's fine was his mantra the whole way to her office. She said it enough that it must always be true, even when it wasn't. He shouldn't be driving to her office when she's fine. He could ruin her whole investigation when she's fine. Nosey Agents probably followed her home. She was home: fine. He makes a left turn and thinks about doubling back. She was fine, there was no need to get her in trouble. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine.

His self-assurance is shattered at 4:32 pm, when he sees emergency vehicles lined outside her office building.

* * *

><p>Scully calls Mulder's line twice from her cell phone. She knew he didn't want to talk to her; knew he didn't want to hear her voice. But she also knew that Mulder had a threshold for anger and that he would eventually answer. It had been nearly an hour since he left and she was hoping that he'd calmed down. When her first call goes unanswered she sighs and begins to dress for her appointments. Today she only had two, although the second made her blood run cold.<p>

Once she's finished dressing, she calls him again.

She needed to hear Mulder's profile of her patient, needed him to tell her that she was "exaggerating," even though secretly she knew what he would say. She hopes mentioning the patient will make him call her back.

When he doesn't answer she closes her personal phone and locks it in her bedroom safe. She wishes she could lock herself inside as well

* * *

><p>It's nearly 4pm when she calls Mulder for the third time, her hands shaking.<p>

"He just left and I'm scared, Mulder," she's whispering into her office phone. She knows that it's bugged, but she needs to call. "He's exhibiting symptoms of-"

Her phone line goes dead.

Scully's pupils dilate like an animal anticipating combat. Her instincts kick in immediately, and she pushes the thought from her head that it was a coincidence. Mulder's voice echoes in her head: "If coincidences are just coincidences, why do they feel so contrived?" When the lights go out with a loud surge, she knows that her assumptions are right.

Mulder was right.

Her patient was exhibiting symptoms of an impending break. She'd dialed out from her office phone to alert the authorities previously, but was immediately halted by the agents monitoring her line.

They didn't care that he was a danger. That he could kill someone. She had no "proof," just speculation and her "womanly" fears.

Her only hope was Mulder, and now the line was dead.

* * *

><p>"Are you married, Dr. Du Maurier?"<p>

"This session is about you, Jeremy," she responds coolly.

"Stop deflecting my questions," he snaps. She doesn't jump when he bangs his fist on the side-table. When he looks up he is hoping to see terror register her features, but his eyes harden when she is staring back at him, impassive.

"Why would you like to know about my personal life? " Scully is cautious as she speaks, but her voice is unwavering. She knows that her patient feeds off of the terror of others. His record was extensive, and she immediately thinks back to her work with the FBI. In another life, Mulder would be creating a case around Jeremy Thomas, telling the jury that he should not be kept with the general population.

"Y'know, my wife had this way of spinning things so they always were my fault when she called the police."

She waits for him to continue, her eyes like ice.

"you're just like her," he laughs half-heartily, his eyes sinister. Scully swallows the lump in her throat and continues as if his words hadn't just terrified. "I suffered and she never had to pay."

"Why do you make comparisons between your wife and me, Jeremy?"

"You're an ice-cold bitch, just like her, Bedelia."

"Dr. Du Maurier," she corrects. "I think it would be best for us to end our session for today Jeremy."

"What're you, gonna report me now to my officer?" She rises from her seat and crosses the room to open the door for him.

"You should go."

"Now you're really like my wife," he's laughing as he picks up his jacket and saunters across the room, his heavy steps echoing. When he reaches the door, he looks down at the petite blonde. "The only difference between you two is that she's dead," his hazel eyes are sinister and hold hers for seconds that feel like years. He laughs again, before walking through the threshold. When she hears him whisper "but that's an easy thing to fix." She's terrified.

* * *

><p>Without the power, she knows the bugged cameras are off. Scully reaches out blindly for her desk. At one point, she could argue that late night chases with Mulder had given her perfect night vision. But as her hands reach and feel for the desk drawers, Scully's reminded that she is sorely out of practice- or just old. Possibly a mixture of the two?<p>

Whoever was coming, they wouldn't get her without a fight. Her office door was still locked-she had time.

She blinks at the sudden blinding light, and shields her eyes momentarily. She wants to believe that it was just a circuit trip, that the many other offices in downtown Baltimore were simply using too much power. But the feeling in the pit of her stomach won't abate.

"Miranda?" she calls, unlocking her office door and calling to the receptionist. She'd forgotten all about her receptionist, a young girl in her early 20's working her way through business school. While the brunette was slightly ditzy at times, she had potential- and she was kind. Seeing Miranda every day, and knowing that there was no hidden agenda behind her smiles, or her Christmas cookies, gave Scully comfort. She personally picked Miranda, mulling over names and doing background checks with Mulder.

'Look here, Scully,' he had said, bringing up the girl's facebook page. She really should have updated privacy settings, but there she saw a profile picture of a young woman kissing a cup of starbucks. As Mulder continued to peruse they saw pictures of 'nights out' mingled with office pictures. 'Throwback Thursdays' with landscape quote of the day photos. She was a young woman, simply living her life. Scully was that woman once upon a time in Medical school. Miranda had grown on her over time.

As Scully opens her office door fully and steps into her waiting room, prepared to laugh off her terrible fright with Miranda, she instead slides, grabbing the doorjamb for support. She immediately feels bile rise from her stomach when she looks down to see what she's slipped on.

She chose Miranda, personally.

The young woman now lay dead on the floor, her eyes staring up at the ceiling; face stuck in terror.

Scully hates herself for turning on her heels and running back into her office. For locking the door. For not checking to see if she had a pulse, even though she knew she didn't.

Her breath is coming out in short puffs, and she reaches for the phone, hoping it came on with the electricity. She simultaneously pushes the panic button under her desk repeatedly. It had to work. They wouldn't leave her without a panic button.

It was Jeremy. He had come back for her. His last words echo in her head. He wouldn't kill her, she'd sacrificed too much, had too much to lose to simply die.

The phone is unresponsive, and although she's pushed the panic button nearly 10 times, no one has come running. Not that they cared. She was just a pawn. Scully pulls the first drawer of her desk open with force, yanking the whole thing off the track and out of the desk. The contents spill haphazardly and she bends, reaching easily through the pens and notebook for the shining keys. She'd have to save herself. She'd already been trapped, she wouldn't let them have the satisfaction of her death, and subsequently, Mulder's.

She would kill this man if she had to.

Jamming the key into the locked drawer, she yanks the handle prepared to grab her gun.

Except it's not there.

Hannibal, she thinks. The camera cords bugging her office are probably gone too.

Her heart is beating fast as she weighs her options. No one was in her office yet. She could try to leave through her office door. No. Her eyes scanned the room and she briefly thinks about climbing out the window and dropping down two your luck you'd break your neck. Her final option is to find a weapon and wait. Just as she reaches down to grab the letter opener, laying on the floor from the violent pull of the drawer moments earlier, the office door is abruptly kicked in.

"Oh my God," she shouts as the man smiles, stomping into her office, his body covered in Miranda's blood.

"Did ya like the power outage?" Jeremy asks. "Spooky. Always what happens in the horror movie before the blonde dies."

Scully's blood runs cold. Her fingers tighten around the letter opener behind her back.

"When my wife died I was angry," her eyes are locked on his, as she stands rigid behind her desk. It is the only barrier she has, and Scully knows all too well that it won't last long. "You see, when she was hit by a drunk driver, I didn't get closure." From the unexpected silence in the room, she realizes that he wants- expects her to respond.

"You are still able to receive closure, Jeremy," her voice shakes momentarily.

"You're right," he smiles and closes the distance between them. She takes a step back, and gasps as he jumps her desk, plunging the letter opener into what should be his heart. His last minute movement lands the opener into his bicep and he howls in pain, looking down at his bleeding arm. Scully takes the opportunity to run, getting just to the door when his fist clenches around her hair and yanks. She screams as he rips out strands and flings her across the room. The glass table breaks under the force of her face-first fall and her head smashes to the ground.

Scully moans in pain, as she attempts to get to her hands and knees. Her vision is spotted with black and her hands sink into shards of glass as she gets to her hands and knees. When her left eye clouds with red, she reaches her left hand up and presses it to her head. Head wounds bleed a lot, Dana. You'll be fine. She hears a deep laugh as she wobbles to her feet, and doesn't have time to register anything else, before she starts coughing. Her brows quirk in confusion when her right hand returns bloodied from her coughs, and she looks down. Scully's eyes widen and she stumbles toward her desk.

"Got yourself into quite the predicament, Bedelia," he deadpans, taking slow steps across the room. It's a game for him, hunting prey that can no longer escape. Her hands press as tightly as they can hoping to slow the bleeding of the wound, a large glass shard now embedded in her stomach.

"I-I" she stumbles, as blood pools around her lips. Haematemesis. She staggers, still attempting to get away from him when his hands wrap around her neck.

"It was my RIGHT to kill her," His spit splatters across her face."I DESERVED to be the one, after what YOU put me through." She feels so cold. Scully feels her blood pulsing in her neck. "I had dreams of crushing your throat" He lifts her small body and she kicks her feet in futile protest, her eyes bulging from her skull as he exerts more pressure on her windpipe. "Are you, afraid, Jessica?" He screams, his grip tightening. "Fucking Bitch!" The world is spinning, but she reaches her hands up and grabs for his face, pushing her manicured thumbs into his eye sockets with all the strength she can muster. He screams in agony and drops her.

Her breath comes out in wheezes as she tries to get back to her feet, holding her stomach as her precious lifeblood seeps. She limps as blood drips down her legs, one foot heeled, the other bare and exposing freshly painted toes. She can faintly hear his words as her world begins to blacken. Blood Loss, She tells herself. Or death. Scully's legs give out at the door and she falls to her knees, then to her side. Her hands are still against the pooling blood of her stomach, but she can't collect any more energy to compress the wound. She'd let him down. She promised to never leave him again.

"Dr. Du Maurier,"

"Mul-ler," she rasps, barely a whisper. Her eyebrows raise, confused as she comes in and out of consciousness. Scully's eyes hazily open and she sees Hannibal lurking over her. "Don't speak, Bedelia. Paramedics are on the way."

**A/N: Where would you like this to go? Should I continue this story? Drop me a review, if you have time! **


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